It was the Motzei Yom Kippur.
Hundreds of Mispallelim are outside the Shul reciting Kiddush Levanah.
Afterwards a large circle is formed and we begin to dance.
Everyone is hungry, thirsty and tired; however, somehow there is strength left for one more dance; one more opportunity to sing our praises to Hashem.
Rabbi Ron Yitzchak Eisenman
The dance concludes and everyone wishes each other a “Gut Yuhr” and that with Hashem’s help we should be able to dance again next year.
I make my way back into the now empty cavernous Shul.
This is a special time for me.
Everyone else goes home to eat.
I too will go home; however, not just yet.
I head back into the now vacant sanctuary and I stand alone and listen.
The room is now silent; yet, just twenty minutes before there were hundreds of Jews united and unified as they proclaimed in one powerful and dedicated voice: “Hashem is the one and only G-d”.
I see Talleisim which will be folded and put away tomorrow.
I spot more than one Kittel still moist and wet from the perspiration of a man who poured out his soul to Hashem the entire day.
I notice the Machzorim with bookmarks protruding which the children used.
Their Rebbeim and Moros had the children mark those special places in davening where the child should be able to follow along.
And I see the tissues… the wastebasket is overflowing from the tissues soaked with the tears of Hashem’s children.
The room is now totally silent.
I relish this time in the now empty sanctuary; it is a time when the walls are still reverberating from the day’s davening, yet simultaneously, the room is eerily quiet.
I am alone with my thoughts and with my contemplations.
I indulge myself for one extra minute to dedicate one more Tefillah of thanks to Hashem for having allowed me to experience one more Yom Kippur.
Suddenly I hear a cry.
I am sure I am dreaming; perhaps a leftover sob from today’s Neilah is still resounding off the walls?
I then hear a whimper; it is real; I am not hallucinating, someone is here.
I am not alone.
I scan the tables and the seats and then I spot him; he is in the far end of the Shul, in the last row in the corner seat.
He is a newcomer; I have never seen him here before today.
He is crying.
“Are you alright? Do you have a place to break the fast?” I ask.
“Yes, thank you rabbi, I have plenty of food and I am fine”; he says through his tears.
“I don’t want to disturb you; however, Yom Kippur has ended; the Shofar has sounded, davening has concluded for today and now is the time to eat and to get some rest”, I tell him.
He looks at me and with a tear-stained face he cries out and says, “That is exactly why I am crying.”
“I don’t understand why is the fact that the Shofar has sounded and davening is completed a reason for you to cry?” I ask.
“Rabbi, I am thirty two years old; and today was the first ‘real’ Yom Kippur in my life. Today I fasted and prayed like a Jew the entire day. It was exhilarating and I felt Hashem as I never have before.”
“That is wonderful; today for the first time in your life you intensely and meaningfully communicated with Hashem. Why then are you crying?”
“I am crying because I had so much more to say… there was so much more I wanted to tell Him and then- suddenly- the Shofar sounded…and the day was over…I needed so much more time…”
And all along I thought I knew what Yom Kippur was all about.
